Swamps Poems

The New Call of the River Nun

From the rising sun in the east
To casted shadows after dark in the west,
Our tribal marked faces show,
A timeless story, aglow.
Seasons come and go,
Hiding shades and dimmed sparks.
Beneath the sprawling swamps,
Cornering meandered mangroves,
Our roots run deep,
Anchored in attires of legacy.
Our heads see without light,
Guided by old wisdom unspoken.
Truth and strength wrap us,
Like leaves hiding the stem,
This binding keeps us to mother earth,
Fatherland, and to each other.
The river Nun whispers
Future tales of our past,
Her ebb and flow carry songs of joy,
Of resilience, of hope.
Wells oiled to bustle with life,
Echoing voices of a southern people united,
Crafting stories with each fishing net,
With each catch and harvest,
With each chant that shakes the air.

We stand with one another,
As trees in a forest,
Strong and steadfast,
Each branch reaching,
Each leaf singing,
Together in harmony,
Brothers and sisters fit to guide,
The new call of the river Nun.

Swans and Snakes

A million dollars will shut a thousand mouths
forever seal black books 
seed a million clouds
place bodies in swamps
and swaying from meat hooks
and far- far underground. 
A billion dollars can by a million souls
denature the fabric of the globe
chase hope and faith down the rabbit hole.
A billion dollars will promptly end investigation
turn the lake of truth into a blue opaqueness
A trillion dollars will turn a bank of swans into a den of snakes.

Forests of Green Coniferous Trees

Forests of Green Coniferous Trees

Forests of evergreen conifers
(Fir, spruce, cedar, pine, and hemlock trees)
Keep their colour throughout the seasons
And don’t shed foliage in autumn.

Rooted in soil and basking in sunlight,
They grow on hillsides and in valleys,
Encircling rock outcrops, swamps, and leas,
And near rivers and lakes, and on islands.

These hearty trees endure nature’s throes
Of cold, harsh, winters to warm spring thaws,
Thriving in summer and fall to help provide
A habitat for the forest dwellers.

Conifer pollen and seed cones pollinate,
And fertilized seeds disperse on windy days
—Or get stashed away by squirrels and birds—
And grow into stately coniferous trees.

Home

We all have beginnings somewhere,
a place where the soul first took root
and drew its history, fixed a compass 
point, a pin in a map to mark its home.
For me it was here
where the horizon began
in a haze of mangrove trees
and broad tidal flats
and boats bellied in mud 
when the sea sucked back the river
leaving its gums grinning 
under a warm sun. It was here
where my ancestors landed
more than a century and a half ago.

Now manicured to prime real estate,
the tides keep to an orderly flow 
within grassy banks overseen
by multi million dollar views.
The mangrove forests have gone,
the swamps sanitised to lawn.
I look across the glistening reaches
of a man made lake to where 
the slow drift of sailboats scrape 
the bottom of an evening sky.
All seems out of place, not home
and yet I mull as to whether 
there is any other beyond this one, 
beyond the little sailing boats
and the barking dog nearby.

Depression

Depression at night. 
It is a sound. 
It could be a tree branch.
Or someone in need of help who is knocking on doors, hoping someone will save them.
It could be a dog. 
Or a train. 
Anything could be making that sound. 
If there really is a person banging on the door for help…
Maybe they’ll go to a different house. 

I wonder if werewolves get depressed. 
I sold my textbooks. 
I cleaned my backpack. 
Werewolf thoughts enter my brain. 

In the daytime, I’m a depressed person. 
I had a hard time admitting that. 
But when I’m up late at night,
There are swamps, and woods. 

I always scare them away. 
I used to go to college, like a person. 
But when you drop out of school. 
You stop being a student. 
The mosquitos start buzzing around the swamp.
You start lurking in the woods. 
During the day, you lie in bed. 
At night, you run as if you’re supposed to. 

I’m 19 and dropped out of college. 
The full moon is coming in five days. 

I dropped out of college and turned into a werewolf. 
That's what’s been on my mind.

Gator Sack

In the twilight's glow, a wild allure,
I find a treasure, rugged yet pure.
“I want to hold your gator sack,
Its rugged charm pulls me off track.”

Beneath my collar, heat does rise,
A mystery wrapped, caught in your guise.
Oh, gator sack, your mystique sings,
In shadows deep, my longing clings.

From swamps untamed, your essence calls,
With every stitch, my heartbeat enthralls.
A treasure rare, my heart's delight,
This crazy lust can't be contained tonight.

I reach for you, through woven threads,
A world of wonder in all that spreads.
The stories whispered in your seams,
A canvas of wild colors masquerading in my dreams.

And so, I hold you, feel the weight,
In every fold, I contemplate fate.
With passion burning, wrapped in style,
I'll hold you close for just a while.

For in this moment, fierce and clear,
The gator sack draws me so close.
In its embrace, the wildness blooms,
A dance of desire in the evening’s rooms.

So let me linger 'neath the stars' soft light,
With you, dear sack, I’ll savor the night.
For though the dawn will soon arrive,
In this gator's charm, my heart will thrive.

Gifts of silence

What if silence too is a script we conjure,
tapping into subconscious mind, befooling
ourselves, as we sidestep the truth of what is …
   bemused by ego?

Trapped in swamps of dark desires, bound by beliefs,
how else can we exit this matrix unless
thoughts cease, that thus grace invoked, our soul’s eye sees …
   noumena within?

Witch's heart

Nimbus sheathes, laden heart's dark swamps.
Gush the insides out, a hollow, eerie remain.
Crimson cascade moat round, forbid ramps.
Notions of brick and steel, power's sweet regain.
A firm cage hedges all woes of time's sharp pain.
Blithe strides bridge the cracks, prove feasible still.
No doors, no windows, locked in impossible will.

Lost Myristica swamps

"What we are doing to the forests of the world is but a mirror refection of what we are doing to ourselves and to one another.” Quote by - Mahatma Gandhi
----------------------------------------------------------
Specially designed knee roots
Stilt roots dig deep into soil
Abundant swamp water still
In evergreen tree forests

Dried up streams, levelled up swamps
Reveal more frustrated roots
Grinning at open clear sky
Deep in forest no new roots

Red-listed trees and insects
Red-listed flowers, reptiles
Sit as samples in glass jars
Dancing frog stuffed nice on shelf

Angelic damsefly sits
Still like an aura quartz branch
Forgetting which way to fly
To live untouched by human

The Real America

The real America is not divided into states of red and blue.
The real America is united stripes of red, white, and blue.
The real America is 50 states, and each one is a shining star.
Like an ever-winding river, she flows from sea to shining sea.
From high on the Great Divide, she descends, inspiring and serving.

Through canyons, valleys, and lakes; over hills, prairies, and swamps;
From mountains high, she watches the wanderers and the weary,
helping them to find an abode under the sun, a place of belonging,
a home of their very own. And she offers them hard work,
opportunity, and freedom, not entitlements and handouts.

The real America has already been greatly blessed by God.
Presently, my most humble request is that God will graciously
hear our humble cry to be saved from ourselves.

082224PS

Woman

Shes a woman, a mother, a sheroine, a phenomenal view  to life, based in the deepest marshes and swamps of Africa. One unescappable piece of Gods artifact, a being soo difinite and adorrable...

Her courageous persistence to her motherhood, waterring seed of hope to every unstained blood. With her undivided attention to the well being of her children, life arouse optomesticly to where Africa is heading to just because she's a woman...

Her unartificial love, soo nature defined for God took his time. "She" a pronoun unwavering, holding enermous weight of what caring means. Her divine  tender, unconditionally unleashed to minds and hearts soo deserving just because its a woman.

Simple

They call me simple now 
Because I have less
And want less
And talk less

After the sting
When my cheeks and mind had cooled
I hoped so

I have been washed up on the sides of shallow streams
And whipped around on white water rivers
And up to my shoulders in alligator swamps
To my knees in heavy mud
I have been enraptured with the false promise of the bay
And thinking that I had reached the end of hope
I have laid my limbs down around the buoys
And bobbed my time away

If there is an ocean after all
And if I am nearly there
Well good

All my broken canoes
And the shoes I left buried in quicksand
Will meet me here
Where the rain comes back to the sea
And ten thousand currents coalesce
To be simple

Crocodiles

Crocodiles not live
On swamps and rivers only
In all streets too.

Crocodiles, the living fossils

A mighty ancient predator a reptilian that’s highly feared, 
distinct among its peers deserves to be revered.

Basking on river banks seeking the sun’s warmth, 
but when it comes to mating it’s best in thunderstorms.

Crocs are deadly hunters that feed on every prey, 
in swamps and muddy waters they live and like to stay. 

They stealthily move in silence and engulf or seize their prey, 
they spin their bodies to tear apart the flesh of game they slay.

Crocs are opportunistic feeders, 
in darkness can find their way, 
with the smell of blood and taste of meat they like to start their day.

Sanctuary Of Silence

In clamor continuum
noise navigates
decibel waves 
beyond discernment
           numbed,
voice of frenzy
feels the caress 
of hushed calmness, 
halcyon sentiments 
           sink slow 
in solvent serenity  
unexpressed
in remote recess  
of mute mind,
fluidity swamps
sonic impulse
           insensate.

Corrosive cacophony  
finally ceases
           compelled,
the unsaid composes
sonata of silence
           echoed,
finds nascent niche
           tranquil,
strikes reticent concord 
           sensuous
in concerto cord
of harmony,
vivacious voice rises 
           serenades
lilting lyric
           unsung
in sanctum of silence.

Strident storm
spite spent,
stops consumed 
on catastrophe
            contrived,
sheathed placid
by stalled silence,
            spreads 
where it finds 
muffled manifestations
            smothered, 
beguiled spring breeze 
            incites
taciturn emotions, 
floral feeling
sprouts fragrance
in sanctuary of silence.

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